


Stadium

by Doomsteady



Series: Spotlights [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All of the fluff and smut and angst tags, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Asexual Sex, Asexual Sherlock, Bisexual John, Exhibitionism, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hotel Sex, John can't help himself, Kiss cam, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Neurosis, Public Masturbation, Seriously why are there so many variations of this, Sherlock protects those who are different, Smut, Stadium, Super Bowl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:44:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8137676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doomsteady/pseuds/Doomsteady
Summary: Is it even possible to have a sexual relationship with an asexual man? John has just discovered Sherlock is in love with him. And while he feels the same way about Sherlock, he isn't sure this can really work. Sherlock sets out to prove to John that he wants nothing more than to fulfill every one of John's needs.And it begins with two tickets to Super Bowl Sunday.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Third in a planned series of five fics; if you haven't read Rainbow and Gallery yet, I'd highly recommend them both! Although you only really need Rainbow to get the jist of this relationship. It's short and hot and will only take you a few minutes to read. Here is where the continuity between the fics starts becoming more apparent, and that's a trend that will continue in the last two (Underground and Birthday).
> 
> But enough about all that. Enjoy!

Sherlock showed John the tickets Mrs Patterson had slipped him earlier in the art gallery. They were seats to the annual Super Bowl game on Sunday. Neither of them were particularly into sports, let alone one so Americano-centric, but they had some time to kill before heading back to London and figured it was better than any other plans they’d had for the evening, and so they decided to go see what all the fuss was about.  
  
About an hour before they were due to leave, John knocked on the door to Sherlock’s room and was let inside. He sat nervously on the edge of the bed, quite obviously preoccupied with some matter on his mind. Eventually Sherlock had to sit next to him and force it out.  
  
“What is it?” he said, studying John’s face. “This isn’t too much for you, is it? We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”  
  
John shook his head. After a moment, he turned to Sherlock with an almost sad look in his eye. This was clearly something he’d been giving a lot of thought to. “What are we, Sherlock?” he asked quietly.  
  
Sherlock gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean… Christ, how do I say this without sounding…” He trailed off, unable to find the words. Sherlock waited patiently, knowing his friend all too well. He would eventually say what he wanted to. The struggle was more against saying it in the first place, than not being sure how to word it, and now that he had begun he'd boxed himself into a corner. It was only a matter of giving him time.  
  
Eventually, John took a steadying breath and started over. “What you do for me. What you let me do… It’s a bit more than… It’s not the sort of thing—” He gestures between them. “ _Friends_ don’t do this sort of thing, Sherlock.” He gives up with a sigh and stares resignedly at a spot on the floor.  
  
Sherlock considered this quietly for a few minutes. “Do we have to _be_ anything?” he asked finally. “There doesn’t seem to be any textbook definition that fits our particular relationship. And yes, I’ve searched.” Then hesitantly, he reached over and took John’s hand in his, squeezing it gently. “But does that matter? You’re… important to me, John. Maybe more than you quite realise. I would do anything for you. Whatever that means, is what we are.”  
  
John’s throat tightened. That was one of the most genuine, heartfelt things he’d ever heard Sherlock say. It was kind of shocking, even. He couldn’t recall anybody ever expressing something so warm about him, and when he met Sherlock’s eyes again he saw that they were filled with that rare and fragile John-centric sentiment that nobody else save for him ever got to see. It was almost as if…  
  
“Sherlock… Do you love me?”  
  
They held each other’s gaze for what felt like an eternity before Sherlock responded. “…Would that bother you?”  
  
John shook his head emphatically. “No, no I… But, I thought you didn’t feel…”  
  
A small smile played at his lips. “That doesn’t make me incapable of love, John.”  
  
Of course he knew that, on some level. Maybe. He’d known of Sherlock’s self-confessed asexuality for a long time, but admittedly he was a little ignorant on the specifics of what exactly that meant. He’d always assumed that Sherlock couldn’t grow close to another person in that way, even romantically. But this very much sounded like a confession to him.  
  
And John had to admit, he felt something akin to love for Sherlock in return. He had done for a while now. Especially after he’d begun navigating John through public situations, seeming to take a special kind of joy in setting him up in ways that gave him a safe outlet for his urges. John had even begun associating the experience with Sherlock — for better or worse — and had only felt that connection deepening as time went on.  
  
Now Sherlock was inexorably linked with his desires, and not only physically. Emotionally, he made himself present as the lover who held him close after the moment was over, affectionately stroking his hair and making sure he was okay. This is what they already were; lovers in almost every way that mattered. So really, Sherlock was right to question him; did they need to ‘be’ anything, other than this?  
  
He’d never examined it too closely, these feelings he had for his best friend. He always presumed it would only end in rejection and heartbreak if he dared allow himself to fall for the man. But if they truly did love each other — and it was becoming apparent that they did — then what would that mean for the pair of them?  
  
After closer examination, John found that yes, he _did_ want them to be something. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, but this wasn’t enough for him anymore. But that carried with it its own set of problems that he had no idea how to manage.  
  
To John, a partner was someone who also shared in the physical experience, not just the emotional. The dual sides of love were intransigently linked for him, he couldn't simply have one and discard the other. Ultimately he was a sexual being; he had needs, as Sherlock well knew. And just because he got off in public a lot of the time, that wouldn’t preclude him from wanting to enjoy Sherlock more intimately in a physical way.  
  
But these things were meaningless to Sherlock— they might even make him supremely uncomfortable. Sherlock simply wasn’t like that. He didn’t, _couldn’t_ ever want John in that way. So how could this — being together, being lovers, or partners, or whatever they’d call it — satisfy either of them in the ways they both needed? How could John be with someone whose touches and pleasures he could never give in return?  
  
“Penny for your thoughts,” Sherlock nudged him playfully. “I can hear your mind turning.”  
  
“Sorry,” John said, leaning into his shoulder. “It’s just… I don’t want to make an arse of myself. I don’t want to scare you off.”  
  
Sherlock chuckled. “I don’t think that would be possible.”  
  
“But I… If we were…” He shook himself, forcing it out. “If we were together like that, like… more than friends. I might want to… touch you. And to have you touch me. You’re… God, you’re gorgeous, Sherlock. You’re so bloody attractive. And I couldn’t stand to only appreciate you from afar. The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable, but I need the physical stuff, too. Even kissing…”  
  
“I’m fine with kissing,” he interjected.  
  
John looked up. “Really?”  
  
Sherlock half-shrugged. “Kissing isn’t about sex for me, but it’s deeply intimate; it’s enjoyable in that way. I suppose you could equate kissing and cuddling to sex, in my world. It’s the greatest level of pleasure I’m capable of feeling, just not in a way that makes me want to do… you know. Other things.”  
  
“But I’d want more…” John said sadly. “I’m sorry. I can’t lie and say that I’d just be happy with that, because I know I wouldn’t.”  
  
“John. Look at me.” He looked, but it felt almost painful to maintain eye contact. This was horrible. To be this close, but have to deny the one thing he wanted most in the world. And the worst of it was, it was neither of their fault; this was just who they were. So right for each other, and yet…  
  
But Sherlock looked at him fondly. “I can think of nothing I’d find more satisfying than fulfilling your physical needs, along with everything else. It wouldn’t make me uncomfortable. If it did, would I still be doing the things I do for you when we’re outside?”  
  
“But it would feel so selfish,” John said, his voice tight. “I couldn’t just take and give nothing in return.”  
  
“What I get in return is _you,_ John," he explained. "I love the sight of you losing yourself in pleasure. I love knowing that _I_ did that for you. My pleasure is in making you feel that way. I hardly get nothing at all from it.”  
  
John searched his face, his mind spinning the possibilities. Could they…? Could this really happen? It was no longer a question of whether either of them wanted it. They both wanted it. But there were still so many unknowns, so many risks he couldn’t foresee.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to John’s lips, then back to his eyes. “So, do you want to…?”  
  
And in that moment, he’d decided. “God yes,” John leaned in to him, but Sherlock pressed his fingers to John’s lips and held him back.  
  
“Not here,” he said with an enigmatic smile. “Later. I want it to be special. Not in some four star hotel room.”  
  
John very nearly pouted at being denied, but instead wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist and rested his head against the warmth of his chest. Sherlock held him close, nuzzling John’s hair and breathing him in. They sat that way, embraced and holding each other close, until it was time for them to leave.  


* * *

  
It was a hot day. Too hot for John to realistically bring his coat along with him, but he figured the game would provide enough of a distraction that he wouldn’t need it. The stadium was packed, the roar of the crowds almost deafening. As they made their way down the bleachers to their seats, Sherlock leaned close to John’s ear and spoke.  
  
“Go on ahead. I’ll grab us something to eat.” And with that, he turned and trotted back up the stairs, soon disappearing into the throng of people pouring in.  
  
John found their spot, a pair of aisle seats about midway down. They would have a decent view of the game from here. Down on the field, the pregame ceremony was already underway. John marvelled at how lavish and extravagant it all was. Teams of synchronised performers displayed the national colours while a U.S Army band drummed up a military beat, which tickled John’s sense of nostalgia for his service years.  
  
As the national anthem was being sung, Sherlock re-appeared next to him holding a big box of chicken wings, handing them over while he sat.  
  
“That took a while,” John commented, peering hungrily into the box.  
  
“There was a queue.”  
  
“Ah.” He took out a piece and started munching, and was visibly surprised when Sherlock did the same, but his friend either ignored or simply didn’t notice his incredulous look.  
  
At last the game was underway. It took him a while to grasp the rules, but soon John found himself quite enjoying the spectacle. Sherlocked appeared neither impressed, nor particularly bored by it. In fact, he seemed to be fidgeting a lot in his seat. If John didn’t know better, he’d say he looked distracted.  
  
Perhaps it was the food. To John’s amazement, Sherlock had helped him clear the entire box of wings. That was more than he’d seen Sherlock eat in an entire week, sometimes. John was about to fold up the box and put it under his seat when Sherlock stopped him.  
  
“Give it here a sec,” he said, his eyes fixed on the game. John handed it over.  
  
“Why? It’s empty.”  
  
Sherlock began carefully deconstructing the box, tearing some flaps off and re-arranging it, before putting it back together again. When he was finished, the box looked intact from the front and sides, but the back and base of it were empty. He then placed the box back in John’s lap, glancing sideways at him with a smile and an eyebrow raised.  
  
“On you go, then.”  
  
“…Seriously?” John threw him a dubious, but brazen grin. In truth, he hadn’t felt a strong need to touch himself today, despite being surrounded by thousands of people. John supposed that it was such an enormous venue, it made him feel completely insignificant. In some respects this was a safer place for him than a much smaller, much quieter gathering would be.  
  
But now that Sherlock had put the idea in his head, how could he ignore it? And there were other people sitting close to them, in front and behind, and to John’s right further along the row. The element of risk was there, and his fingers were already beginning to twitch.  
  
Holding the box close to him, John glanced around to check if anyone could see, before unzipping his jeans and carefully pulling out his penis. The box provided a shield on all sides, but the removed panel in the back allowed room for his hand to accompany it inside. He kept the lid closed, just in case people in the rows behind them could see over his shoulder.  
  
Sherlock laid his hand reassuringly on John’s thigh, glancing over occasionally with a gleam in his eyes as John leisurely played with himself. There was something in those looks that John couldn’t quite read, and while they weren’t exactly off-putting, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Sherlock was anticipating something.  
  
But he kept going, and soon it didn’t matter as much as just how good this felt. John was rock hard by then and had begun working himself more seriously, as the pleasurable teasing had built into something more demanding. Half-time was fast approaching, and that would be the more hazardous time for him to still have his cock out, as people would be leaving their seats and brushing past them to use the facilities and acquire fresh snacks.  
  
He gripped himself firmer and picked up the pace. He couldn’t see it, but he felt the warm wetness of precum dribbling out of his cockhead, and he used his thumb to smear it around his velvety foreskin, easing the friction into a softer, more pleasurable slide through his fist.  
  
Next to him, Sherlock had noticed the colour rising in John’s cheeks and the wavering of his breath as he approached the cusp. He leaned in to whisper in John’s ear. “Might want to hold off a bit. Keep yourself on the edge.”  
  
John gave him a suspicious look. “Why?” he breathed, but Sherlock only smiled to himself and settled back in his seat.  
  
Bemused, but willing to play along with whatever his friend had in mind, John did as he was told— he slowed to a steady pace, no longer chasing the orgasm that was poised now like a volcano in the pit of his scrotum, waiting to erupt. He wasn’t sure how long he could hold it there, but he was going to try; he was too curious for whatever Sherlock had planned.  
  
Half-time arrived, and the players filtered out of the field. To John’s relief (and slight disappointment, if he was honest) not many people around them got out of their seats, leaving them mostly undisturbed.  
  
Then an announcer came over the loud speakers, accompanied by some music that John vaguely recognised as a romantic ballad he’d heard once on the radio. The voice excitedly warned the crowd to prepare for something called the ‘Kiss Cam’.  
  
“’Kiss Cam’?” he parroted. “Is this some American thing? What’s—”  
  
In that moment, Sherlock nudged him and pointed across the stadium at an enormous mounted TV screen. John couldn’t believe what he was seeing. There, blown up on a 5,000 square feet image that everyone in the stadium was currently watching, was a live image of himself and Sherlock in their seats under a flashing bit of text that simply read, **‘KISS!’**  
  
Sherlock turned to him, a decidedly smug grin on his face. “I believe they expect us to kiss now,” he said matter-of-factly, bringing his face close to John’s.  
  
“Sherlock—” John gasped, and then Sherlock’s soft, cupid-bow lips were pressed against his. Almost chaste, at first, but John’s current state and the reality of what was happening was tearing through him like a falling meteor, and he couldn’t hold back any longer. The kiss quickly turned carnal, and at the first insistence of John’s tongue, Sherlock’s lips parted and allowed him inside.  
  
Sherlock's soft tongue playfully caressed him as John's own more urgently licked and explored the warmth of Sherlock's mouth. John was panting into Sherlock’s steadier, but equally needful breaths, both of them smelling and tasting like barbecue chicken. At any other time that would probably have been gross, but right now he didn’t care, because at the same time his hand was wildly pumping his cock, and he dimly realised _this was happening_ ; John stole a glance at the screen to see that it was still watching them, zoomed on their faces and their interlocking lips, and they couldn't see the throbbing hard erection that was swelling in his fist under the scrutiny of hundreds of thousands of people.  
  
“Oh God, Sherlock…” he gasped, feeling his balls tighten, the hot liquid churning and pressing and building, and then rushing through his cock as his muscles began contracting beyond his control to stop it. “Oh God oh fuck oh _fuck—!!_ ”  
  
He keened into Sherlock, who cupped John’s cheek with his hand as John’s face drew tight in pleasure. He whimpered and moaned helplessly into Sherlock’s mouth as he came. Sherlock captured his tongue between his wetted lips and sucked on it, further encouraging the shudders of orgasm crashing like waves through John’s body. John felt his cum pooling against his fist in the bottom of the cardboard box, which Sherlock was helpfully keeping held in place lest it suddenly get knocked away in front of an entire stadium of watchers.  
  
As John’s other senses came back online, he realised the crowd was cheering around them. His muscles relaxed, and Sherlock pulled away slightly, roaming his eyes over John’s face. He was barely holding back a fit of giggles.  
  
“My God, John. You look absolutely wrecked,” he noted with an apologetic grin. He checked the big screen briefly before sitting back in his seat, leaving John — flushed red and feeling indeed quite wrecked — to slump back and recover from the experience, his hand still clutching the softening penis inside the box.  
  
The Kiss Cam moved on to its next target couple, and soon the attention around them died off enough for John to surreptitiously fumble at his jeans and put himself away. Fortunately, he’d kept the napkin Sherlock had brought with the food in the bottom of the box, so not a lot of his deed had spilled visibly on his jeans. Suitably re-clothed, he stuck the box under his seat, thinking a silent apology at the poor clean-up crew who’d eventually find it there.  
  
John sat in a dazed, happy state. Having given him a few minutes to recover, Sherlock cleared his throat. “I think we should call it a day, don’t you?”  
  
“Hm? Oh, if you want to. I was quite enjoying the game, though.”  
  
“I’d be happy to watch the rest, only I’m quite sure a number of people around us are aware of what really just happened.”  
  
John glanced around warily. “You think so?” to which Sherlock nodded in response. “You’re right, then; time to leave.”  
  
They stood and made their way to the exit as expediently as possible without making themselves look too suspicious, and soon they were safely sequestered in the back of a taxi heading to the hotel.  
  
“So, that’s what you meant by special?” John teased, his fingers entwined with Sherlock’s on the seat between them. A smile tugs at the corners of Sherlock’s lips. “And that’s why it took you so long to get the chicken wings?”  
  
“Yep,” Sherlock replied.  
  
“You crafty bastard.”  
  
That kiss — not to mention that orgasm — would remain one of the most wonderful moments in John’s memory for the rest of his life. And, knowing Sherlock’s cunning and ingenuity, there would be many more of those in the future.

 

* * *

  
  
Back in Sherlock’s hotel room, the detective pulled him in for a slow, loving kiss. Their arms wrapped around each other and Sherlock was pressed against the wall, the long length of his slim yet muscular body against John’s own. Their tongues moved together, tasting, playfighting. When John realised his hands were wandering across Sherlock’s body he broke the kiss and moved to pull away, but Sherlock held him close, his eyes brimming with concern.

“What’s wrong?”  
  
“I just…” John’s fingers traced down Sherlock’s shirt buttons, and he shot him a quick, apologetic smile. “If we carry on like that, I’m gonna need some alone time in the bathroom.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him as if he’d suddenly begun speaking German. “Whatever for?”  
  
“Take a guess,” he replied, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“But… Why would you need to be alone for that?”  
  
John wasn’t exactly sure how to answer this tactfully. After a moment, he sighed, removing himself from Sherlock’s arms. “I don’t… I don’t know how to deal with this,” he said, waving his arm between them. “You are so bloody fit, you have no idea, and kissing you is making me _very_ horny. My mind wants nothing more than to just… rut against you like a fucking animal, or something. And I know what you said earlier, about… But, you can’t possibly want—”  
  
“I want everything,” Sherlock interrupted him. “I want to give you everything that you need.”  
  
“I know you do, but… I mean, for instance, you don’t want to see me naked… do you?”  
  
“I want everything that is _you,_ John,” he said, his voice soft and honest. John debated this internally.  
  
“Then, would… you let me see you naked, too?”  
  
“Yes,” he replied surely. “If it would please you, anything. Only don’t be disappointed that I won’t be hard for you. It wouldn’t mean that I’m not enjoying the experience, or don't want to be there. You know I rarely subject myself to things I find boring or unappealing.”  
  
John approached him again, and after a moment of hesitation, slipped his arms back around Sherlock’s waist. When he looked up to meet his eyes, Sherlock slipped his hand around the nape of John’s neck and urged him forwards.  
  
“Show me, John,” he whispered. “Don’t hold back. Let me be everything you need. All I want or need in return is _you._ ”  
  
Their lips met once again, and though John was initially resistant to the idea, he quickly melted into the kiss. He soon found himself losing some of his restraint, encouraged by Sherlock’s hands wandering over his back, and when Sherlock’s teeth grasped at his bottom lip and tugged it gently, he couldn’t help the small choked moan that came from him.  
  
He pressed the hard length of his cock against Sherlock’s thigh, glancing up into his eyes just to make sure his friend — no, his _lover_ now — was okay with this. An affectionate smile reassured him, and he couldn’t resist grinding against him slowly, the friction causing him to gasp again against Sherlock’s lips.

"In that case, I don't give a fig if this is a hotel."

Sherlock laughed softly. "Whatever you like, then."  
  
“Shall we move to the bed?” he said in between gasps, and Sherlock nodded, walking him backwards across the room, still cocooned in his embrace. John’s heels contacted the foot of the bed and he lost balance, falling backwards and dragging Sherlock halfway down with him.  
  
“Fuck— whoops. Sorry!” They shared a giggle as John sat up on his elbows. “So, um… I don’t want you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. But if you’re okay with it, I would really like to see you without those clothes on,” he asked hopefully.  
  
Sherlock smiled, and John watched as his slender fingers picked at the buttons of his shirt, one by one, slowly revealing the pale flesh beneath. To date, John had only seen so far as his collar bones, and occasionally a leg or an arm when the detective needed a minor scrape tended to. Now he was getting the whole package; it was like Christmas.  
  
Having unbuttoned his cuffs, Sherlock shrugged his shirt off. His torso was lean, but not gaunt, and the firm muscles beneath his skin belied a hidden strength. He had a dusting of dark hair across his chest, and the iliac crest of his navel disappeared under the hem of his trousers, a natural valley for the eye to be drawn along, making an enticing promise of the rest of his anatomy.  
  
Sherlock’s hands moved to his fly and hesitated there, before he seemed to change his mind and reach for John’s hands instead. “Do you want to do this part?” he asked in a small, almost timid voice.  
  
“Are you sure?” John asked, his mouth suddenly dry. Sherlock nodded, and he set to work unbuttoning and then pulling down the zip. Then, hooking his thumbs under his belt, he pulled Sherlock’s trousers down, followed by his pants.  
  
Sherlock kicked off the clothing and finally he was stood there, completely naked in front of John. He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little self conscious, but John’s eyes were nothing but appreciative of what they saw as they took him in from head to toe.  
  
“Beautiful,” he murmured. “God, Sherlock. You are _absolutely_ beautiful.”  
  
True to Sherlock’s word, his penis hung soft and light between his thighs, in stark contrast to John, who was so hard by this point he was desperate to escape his own confining clothes. He set to work quickly stripping everything off, tossing them aside, until they were both exploring each other with their eyes. Sherlock seemed every bit as absorbed in the sight of John as John was with him, and for a moment this was enough for both of them.  
  
“I’m getting a little cold,” Sherlock said at last, looking sheepish with a finger playing at his lip.  
  
“Come lay down,” John said, patting the bed, and Sherlock did so. John lay next to him, resting a hand on Sherlock’s chest. There were so many ways forward from this point, he almost didn’t know what to do or say next. But he thought it might be prudent to triple-check exactly what Sherlock felt comfortable with. “You said that it’s okay for me to touch you, but… Do you have any rules about that? Any boundaries I shouldn’t cross?”  
  
Sherlock looked thoughtful for a minute. “I suppose,” he began slowly, “Anything is fine, but I wouldn’t suggest attempting to stimulate my penis. I’m not _incapable_ of getting an erection, but I don’t find it particularly comfortable or enjoyable. It won’t happen so long as you don’t touch it too much. Accidental brushes are fine.”  
  
“Alright”, John said, his fingers already playing in Sherlock’s chest hair.  
  
“Also,” he continued, “Not that I think you’d try it, but nothing up my arse, please.” He grimaces playfully, and John laughed, shuffling his body closer.  
  
“Duly noted,” he chuckles. “And on that note, I don’t think I’m ready for arse-play either. But if you wanted to touch me, anywhere— I would very much enjoy that. Not that you have to.”  
  
“The rules are set, then,” Sherlock said. Their lips met again, resuming their interrupted kiss, and soon John was breathing heavily again, cupping Sherlock’s face with his hands. Sherlock’s arms wrapped themselves around him, and before he knew it John was straddling Sherlock’s hips, his cock standing alert and flushed dark red, a perfect drop of precum poised at the head.  
  
He took a moment to simply enjoy the sight of the man beneath him. In a strange way, he thought, they’re a perfect match. In John’s mind, Sherlock is a man who derives no physical pleasure at all from seeing John hard, or watching him orgasm. It's merely a strange novelty. In that regard, the detached nature of his observation is akin to that of the strangers who see him in the street.  
  
It’s difficult for him to put it into words, but when he’s touching himself in public, he’s getting off as if nobody else in the world knows what this feels like— as if he’s the only person on the planet who can feel this way. They see him, just as Sherlock sees him now: flushed, breathless, losing control over his own reason, his mind overtaken by crude images of sex and dripping cum and voratious fucking. But to them it’s like none of that is pleasurable. When they look at him, they see something not quite right in the way he moves. The way he’s breathing. His dark, half-lidded eyes unfocused, lost in a haze of arousal. His entire world shrunken down to that one imperative need that becomes his only desire, the only goal left in front of him. And yet it would only alarm them; they’d be repulsed, disgusted by it.  
  
It’s the wrongness of it, probably. The taboo. For John, masturbating in front of hapless onlookers was exciting because from their perspective, it was unwanted. It was gross. It was wrong. And that made him feel _so fucking good._  
  
Sherlock wasn’t repulsed by it, but nevertheless he didn’t feel those things. It’s something he could even get bored of, perhaps. John tried to imagine it: Sherlock pinned under him much like this, naked and flaccid and looking supremely disinterested. And John would be sitting on him and jerking off into his face. The fantasy was surprisingly hot. Would he let John do that? Could he cum all over that beautiful, bored face, and then lean over and lick it off him while he remained passive? Would he pretend to be disgusted by it? The more obscene his fantasy spun, the harder it was getting him just thinking about it.  
  
But that was perhaps a discussion to have at another time. John wrapped a long-overdue hand around his hard length and began stroking himself, watching Sherlock’s face. Far from appearing bored, he watched John with a sort of quiet fascination. For him, sexual pleasure didn’t really exist, and he observed it more as a scientific oddity, something to be studied and probed but never experienced — and John found that equally as exciting as he sat over him, his arse resting against the soft flesh of Sherlock's penis.  
  
John took one of his hands and lifted it to his chest, and the hint was gratefully received as Sherlock’s fingers began tracing across his skin, travelling up along the line of his breastbone, slipping along the curve of his collar bone, and back down towards his chest. They circled around a nipple before pinching it slightly, causing John’s breath to hitch, and John could see from the look in Sherlock’s eyes that he was cataloguing all of this, mapping John’s responses like a frontiersman discovering a new world.  
  
John’s pulse quickened as Sherlock’s hand glided downward over his tensing stomach, towards the inner crease of his thigh, and brushed lightly over John’s fist as it moved rapidly over his cock.  
  
“Can I?” he said, and John lifted his hand away to allow him access. Sherlock’s fingers curled around him, his grip surprisingly firm and warm, and resumed the pace John had been going at.  
  
“Christ, Sherlock, that’s good…” he heard himself say. It was a different angle than he was used to, in a pleasing way, and felt better than his own hand. Sherlock seemed surprisingly good at this for somebody who presumably never masturbated himself.  
  
Soon, his steady pace had John’s thighs twitching and his breath coming in irregular gasps and chokes. “I’m close,” he managed to say between gasps. “What should… When I come… what do you want…?”  
  
“Here,” Sherlock pointed at his chest, and fixed his sight on John’s face. “Come for me, John. Show me how good this feels to you. I want to watch you coming on me.”  
  
“ _Fuck_ …” John’s mouth fell open as he came suddenly, Sherlock’s hand not slowing down as he started spurting over his chest, hips jerking forward and stomach muscles squeezing tight. It forced a long, broken moan out of him, and he curled over slightly, his supporting arms weakening but managing to keep him upright. As the intensity receded and it begun to feel over-sensitive he had to still Sherlock’s hand, which hadn’t stopped or slowed during the whole of his climax, milking him to the very last drop.  
  
He barely had the presence of mind to climb off of Sherlock and collapse next to him on the bed, rather than on top of him and the rapidly cooling puddle of cum on his chest. He buried his face in the pillow as he fought to steady his breath, and was nearly dozing when Sherlock’s voice interrupted the quiet air.  
  
“Um… Could you get me some tissues?”  
  
John’s eyes flew open. “Oh! Shit, I’m sorry Sherlock,” he said, breaking into a breathless giggle as he clambered off the bed to retrieve a towel from the en-suite bathroom. Sherlock gave him a mock glare as John came and sat next to him on the bed, mopping up the mess. “I’m not normally that inconsiderate,” he mused. “I just think my mind was blown for a minute there.”  
  
“I rather think so,” Sherlock agreed. “You seemed to enjoy that quite a bit.”  
  
“Understatement of the century,” John said, chucking the towel unceremoniously across the room. “Thank you. That was amazing.” He leaned over and planted a soft kiss on Sherlock’s lips, lingering there to look into his eyes, and seeing that they looked every bit as lax and satisfied as someone who had just come with him. He idly wondered if emotional orgasms were a thing; if so, he's quite certain Sherlock had just experienced one.  
  
Sherlock smiled up at him. “Anytime you need it, John. Just ask.”


End file.
